


Begin a New Beginning

by justbygrace



Series: Reimagining 'Rose' [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Misuse of alcohol, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: Another re-imagining of 'Rose'





	

**Author's Note:**

> I really was obsessed with writing these for awhile.

It's not like he means to get drunk. Or maybe he does. But who could blame him really? He's lost everything, wife, daughter, home. Really, is there anyone who wouldn't go looking for some sort of retcon? Even if it came at the bottom of a bottle, or two, or five, who's keeping track anyway? Certainly not him. Anyway, it's been six months since he found himself in this town, and in that time he's been systematically kicked out of every bar in a fifteen mile radius. It's not his fault, not really. He drinks, he gets loud, he drinks some more, he gets irritable, someone says something stupid, he takes a shot on a dare, maybe several shots, next thing he knows he's got some poor bloke backed against the wall and men with more muscles than he has bones in his body showing him the door. Could happen to anybody, really. 

He always finds his way back home somehow, well, not home. Home is, was a burnt out shell in a city he's trying to forget. This dingy and cold excuse for a flat is where he drags himself to puke out his guts and maybe, if he is really lucky, catch more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time. He has no use for work, the settlement from the electric company could keep him going for years to come, so his days sort of bleed into one another. Wake up at noon hung over, lose his stomach lining into the toilet, down six bananas and a half gallon of milk, shower, pace around his flat, break several items, and then make his way to whatever pub or bar or club is the next on the list (he's going alphabetically now), drink, get in a fight, get kicked out, wind up wandering the streets at 2 am, make his way back to the flat, fall asleep in the middle of the living floor, rinse, and repeat.

As he drags himself through the entry to yet another pub, he hardly pauses to glance at any of the other patrons. It's early yet, barely four in the afternoon. Somewhere in the back of his brain there is a voice saying how pathetic he is, but he drowns it in his first pint of the night. He rests his head on one hand and traces designs on the wood through the residue left behind from his glass. He is only barely aware of the woman behind the counter. He's long since given up trying to pick up random shags; no one wants someone as old and broken as him. When she refills his glass for the second time, a quick glance at the slim fingers adorned with beaded rings tells him everything he needs to know about her age, interest, and likely background. He dismisses her without a second thought.

It isn't even eleven pm before the nightly routine reaches stage two. He's still hunched over the bar when some young punk with too much hair gel and an overwhelming aura of cologne runs into him. He's out of his seat with his hands around the other man's throat before he has time to process his actions, old combat training kicking in with a vengeance. He's expecting to be grabbed by masculine hands, jerked to his feet, and hurled to the street - it's early enough, he could still make another stop tonight; what he gets is soft hands suddenly curling over his and a gentle voice in his ear. He is so taken off guard he relinquishes his hold without really knowing what he's doing. He allows himself to be helped to his feet and steered towards the back of the pub, just barely aware of a continuous pressure on his arm and feminine curves against him - he'd almost forgotten what that felt like. 

She leads him deftly, navigating the drunks and the tables and the couples while he's stumbling over his feet and trying not to pull them both over. His angel (he doesn't know what else to call her and the disco lights are causing her blonde hair to glow) ushers him to a back room, pushes him into a chair, and presses a glass of something into his hand. He drinks because she seems to want him to and if she asked him to run a marathon he'd probably do it. It's water and he downs the whole glass, and then a second, and slowly he can feel his brain returning to its normal functioning powers. The fuzzy edges come into focus, he can hear her voice clearly, and it is every bit as beautiful as he knew it would be. She is rambling, something about pizza and some bloke named Mickey (who he hates instantly) and gymnastics and literally none of it makes sense and he really can't be bothered to care because she is holding a cool cloth to his forehead and he can smell strawberries and vanilla and it makes him sink into a different kind of haze altogether.

When he loses his stomach contents into a sink, she doesn't bat an eyelash, just rubs his back and murmurs soothingly to him, and he wants to stay here forever, even if here happens to be a cold tile pub kitchen floor. When he regains control over his stomach, she hands him another glass of water and some painkillers and presses her shoulder into his and together they sit on the floor, backs against a flaking cement wall. He blurts out that he is old and broken and damaged and immediately hates himself, sure that she will leave. She doesn't. She grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together, and leans her head on his shoulder, saying something about liking danger. He squeezes her hand like the lifeline it is and tries to think of something to say back that isn't corny and pathetic. 

They talk, well, she talks, he occasionally interjects a few halfway comprehensible words which somehow make her smile at him in a way that circulates blood to places it has forgotten to circulate to in ages. When she finds out that he is a traveling man, she is enchanted, quizzing him on where he's been and what he's done. He's vague and she is appalled over landmarks not seen, experiences not had. He mutters something about how she could come with him which she doesn't hear, and when he finds the courage and repeats it, he finds himself with an armful of blonde, gorgeous woman and he swears his heart stops and restarts. She is all bright eyes and questions, how and where and when, and he can feel a smile start to twist the edges of his lips. 

They are startled out of their reverie when the door to the kitchen bursts open, revealing several burly men. He is on his feet in an instant, only her hand in his stopping him from going directly to attack mode. She strokes his arm and he glances down to see her gesturing to the back door. His smile is threatening full force and he whispers: "Run?" "Run," She confirms, already pulling him towards the exit. It isn't until they reach the cool outside air that he realizes he hasn't thought of his ever-present pain and guilt the entire time he's been with her. He pulls her a little closer to him as they race down the street towards his waiting vehicle, he can feel the thrum of energy starting to course through his veins and he is suddenly excited about where this path will take him, but finds he doesn't care, not so long as she is by his side.


End file.
